


dying in the dark

by captainofthegreenpeas



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, F/M, Heartbreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 17:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainofthegreenpeas/pseuds/captainofthegreenpeas
Summary: Alma asks for the one thing Plutarch cannot give her.





	dying in the dark

“I’ve missed you,” Plutarch whispered longingly. 

  
It had been so long since he had seen proper books. The paperbacks in Thirteen were paltry little things, sallow and sour-smelling. He could have forgiven that if the contents had been attractive, but alas, the writing was as dry as the paper. 

  
Leather spines, gilt-edged paper, tissue-thin leaves, elegant type. He had missed those little things.

  
He wondered if anyone would notice if he pilfered a volume or two and took it home. Coin had shown far more interest in the president’s laboratories; and he had demanded little reward for his rebellious acts. Why not take a souvenir?

  
“I thought I’d find you in here.” Coin’s tone hinted at satisfaction. Plutarch paused, before turning around. He wondered briefly whether to ask her for a book or let it pass. 

  
“I’ve gotten predictable, have I?”

  
“If so, that is no bad thing. You have no more enemies you need deceive. Perhaps you would do well to value consistency and reliability better now.”

  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he was careful to say it neither too eagerly nor too casually. The clock in the mansion’s library had stopped at midday. Plutarch moved to restart it.

  
“I need you to reprise your role as Head Gamemaker.”

  
The news swept across him like a sudden frost, freezing him to the spot.

  
“What do you mean?”

  
“What I said,” Coin’s tone remain unchanged. “There will be another Hunger Games, in place of Capitol genocide. Capitol children will now be the tributes, all has been decided. Games, as I am sure your brilliant mind can spot, need Gamemakers. Most of them have, rather inconveniently, been killed: but thankfully you were far away from all of that. I trust you to put on a good show.”

  
“No.”

  
It was Coin’s turn to freeze. 

  
“What do you mean, no?” Her words came out so quickly she forgot to mask her surprise. 

  
“What I said. No.” His hands reached for the back of a chair to support himself. 

  
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe that what I just said was a question.” Her voice tightened on the last word, to indicate its meaning: an order. 

  
“I don’t believe I care very much whether it was a question or not.”

  
“Must I spell this out for you? Must you waste my time?” Plutarch was spending her patience. “This Games is an order. For you. For all of us.”

  
“You don’t have the right.”

  
Judging by the way she squared her shoulders, Alma had a response readied beforehand.

  
“I put it to the surviving victors. They voted; the majority said yes.”

  
“They voted?” Plutarch’s voice was sharp, his words biting. “How generous of you.”

  
She bristled. “I didn’t expect to have to explain ballots to you, Heavensbee. The victors were given the question. They answered yes.”

  
“I oversaw most of those victors in the quarter quell. I don’t exactly care what they think.” His nails were bleeding white as his fingers bent tighter around the back of the chair.

  
“What about what I think?” Her eyes sought his. “Does that matter?” She sounded almost sad. 

  
_Oh, comply_ , a small voice urged in his head. _You’ve done worse before_.   _For the Capitol, you’ve done terrible things. Why not do worse for her? It’s not a crime, is it, if you do it for her? You’ve watched so many children die, what’s another twenty-three? Turning down one games doesn’t absolve you of all those times you didn’t. You just make that choice again_. But a louder voice said, _I chose to defy Snow. I can make that choice again, too._

  
“When I said,” he began, “that the Quarter Quell would be the last Hunger Games, I meant it.”

  
The habitually stoic Coin was changing by the minute, now defensive, now frustrated, now cajoling, now defensive again. 

  
“So now your word means anything?” She snapped. “Now you decide to grow a conscience? Being Head Gamemaker in the Quell was completely fine, but Head Gamemaker now is too much to ask?”

  
“No-one in the quarter quell was under the age of seventeen,” Plutarch pointed out. “How exactly do you think that is a coincidence?”

  
“You were wilful before,” Coin admitted. “But you were never defiant. Now? You’ve abandoned me.” _Why does this hurt?_ She asked herself. _Why do I care whether one person has turned their back on me? I have the whole country._

  
“You’ve abandoned yourself,” was all he said back. His mind was made up, his face resolute. 

  
“Your abstract ideas mean more to you than the people around you,” she realised. “You’re the most selfish person I have ever met. And you’re a coward.”

  
Plutarch stayed looking at her. He did not flinch even at the last word. 

  
“A coward,” she repeated. “A liar. A traitor. Turncloaks never stay loyal, I was a fool to expect you would.”

  
Plutarch’s face remain as unchanged as a wall. 

  
“Well?” Nothing. “Listen to me!”

  
“Your words don’t mean anything to me.” His voice was flat. “I’ve lost too much to care.”

  
“You lost it!” President of Panem, in a shouting match. “I fed you, clothed you, sheltered you. Without me, where would you be when the bombs fell on Thirteen? When the mob came for the Gamemakers? I listened to you. Gave you a place at my table. This is how you repay me, for everything I did for you! You defy me at the earliest opportunity!”

  
“I took your bread and your cloth and your shelter because the revolution was the only thing in my life that made me want to survive,” Plutarch confessed. “It was the last thing I had to live for.” _Now even that is gone_. 

  
“Don’t make me pity you!” Alma wanted to leap over the table and shake this stubbornness out of him. “You were living in the Capitol’s sunshine while my daughter was dying in the dark. You’ve lost no one, because you’ve loved no one but yourself.” _Not even me_ , she thought. 

  
“I didn’t kill your daughter.”

  
“What a great comfort that is to me,” she retorted. “Children die everyday. Does it matter how?” Coin suddenly sounded tired. 

  
“You know,” Plutarch said softly. “I remember once, when Snow told me exactly the same thing.” 

  
“I don’t care what he said,” Coin replied bitterly. “Shortly he will say no more. His execution is in one hour. For now, in recognition of your past loyalty to me, I will overlook this childish outburst, so your attendance is still required there. You have until the end of the day to apologise for your behaviour and accept your new role within my administration. When you do, I will formally receive your plans for the arena and we will speak no more of this foolishness. You will do your duty; and be thankful for all that you have. Until then, consider our friendship at an end.” She turned her back on him and left the room. 

  
Plutarch opened the clock case, paused; and then tapped the pendulum into motion. 

Tick, tock. 


End file.
